Wesley was alone in the cabin when we got back. He told us Dan and Dazzle had gone fishing, too. He praised the perch and joked some about beginner´s luck, then set about preparing a brine to soak them in, telling me we´d smoke them and have them for Sunday lunch. Mr Jackson disappeared to somewhere and left me helping Wesley out, and he set me to scale and wash the fish.
"So what´s between you and Dan?" he asked and I nearly cut my fingers off.
"Nothing, sir."
"You´re telling me I´m stupid?"
"No, sir, Wesley, I mean."
"Yes, you are and I´m not. Is it about him and Jack _f_u_c_k_ing you?"
I couldn´t believe it. They´d told him. And that bloody mole just threw it right in my face, like he was reading me the _f_u_c_k_ing weather forecast.
"Lay the _f_u_c_k_ off me!" I barked out, slamming the knife down the sink, stepping away from him. "That´s none of your _f_u_c_k_ing business!" Then I froze. I wasn´t supposed to bark at anybody right now. I´d be punished for bad behaviour and insolence and god knew what, and I couldn´t take anymore of that, whether they whipped me or _f_u_c_k_ed me all over again. And on top of that I suddenly was on the verge of bawling from confusion and fright and anger and shame and regret and you name it, feeling like a ten year old caught playing with his willie while watching his sister getting undressed.
"Some tough nut", Wesley said. "Go ahead, cry your heart out. They still _f_u_c_k_ed you and you´ll never forget it. Which by the way is the reason why they did it. That was for real. You´re not. You´re a manipulating little snake and you´re not even good at it."
"_f_u_c_k_ you", I said, fighting with the _f_u_c_k_ing tears, not sure if this was actually happening or if I was having a major flashback from some really screwy trip.
"Jack´s right about you, you know. You´re a hard learner. You´re not used to accepting guidance or education. Your caretakers let go of the leash way too soon. Bet you keep telling yourself you´re one of a kind. That´s bull_s_h_i_t_, Thomas. You´re just another punk and you won´t get anywhere until you admit it."
That´s when I´d had enough. I just spun around and got the hell out of there. I ran past the bus right into the woods. Darkness was setting, but I didn´t care. I´d rather die than go back. Then I tripped and fell, hurting my hand and my face, and I gave in to the crying, pain all over and inside of me. I couldn´t understand why I´d gone this _f_u_c_k_ing soft. Seemed I knew _f_u_c_k_all about myself anymore and the development of things was weird beyond description.
I didn´t cry for very long, once I was on my own. Anger replaced the tears and healed me, briefly restoring the power of me. They used cheap tricks to break us down, some got down on their knees and stayed there, others like me saw right through the bull_s_h_i_t_. You can scare people into doing anything. You take a guy and lock him up for 8 _f_u_c_k_ing weeks, humiliating him, robbing him of everything from his self respect down to his _f_u_c_k_ing pubic hair, whipping him skinless for reasons you make up along the way, making sure he just understands about half of it. You even _f_u_c_k_ his ass to show him he´s nothing. Then you let him out, and for some time he´ll be really disorientated and you´re right there, telling him what to do, and he just does it. Now, some guys will lick your feet and think you´re a supreme being, others will wake up from the taste of rubber and road dust and rebel. Others yet will balance on the thin line in between until they trip and fall on either side. Crowmill based everything on fear, and that´s efficient as long as you let them scare you. Resistance and anger were the antidote.
At that point I´d got myself together well enough to realize what I´d done. I was in the middle of nowhere, I´d run away and I´d insulted Wesley Davenport. Yeah, he´d insulted me first and worst, but I would be the one getting blamed and punished, not him. I couldn´t go back, but on the other hand I had no _f_u_c_k_ing idea where I´d go from here. I wasn´t even sure what direction I´d come from and blackness was all around me, it was getting colder by the minute and my ass was aching and bleeding again from the running. I could stay here and freeze to death or have the _f_u_c_k_ing wolves or whatever eating me. I also could walk about until I got really lost and passed out from hunger. Awesome options.
Yeah, you´re right. It all ended with me back in the cabin, and mr Jackson gave me a public mental thrashing and one hour in the kitchen corner. Then I had to apologize to Wesley, not for barking at him or using bad language, because that was OK with him, but for turning down his hospitality. Nice _f_u_c_k_ing hospitality, degrading your guests. I had my cold supper alone in the kitchen while the rest of them watched a video, and after I´d washed up the dishes and cleaned the kitchen mr Jackson first walked me to the privy, then sent me to bed. The guest room was next to the living room and I lay awake for approx five hours, angry and sad and envious of Dazzle, listening to them apparently having the time of their lives. Not a _f_u_c_k_ing lot of rebelling stirring in me by then. Shame got on top of it.
Wesley had another go at me the next morning. I still was the unforgiven and had to stay behind while the others went fishing, doing the washing up, chopping wood – a hell of a job - and stuff like that. The perch was smoking outside, the mix of fish and birch smelling really good. Dan and Dazzle brought home two average sized pikes the night before, and Wesley stuffed them with lemon, salt and parsley to bake in the oven later.
"You´re some screwed up kid", he said. "You really need guidance. This may be the only fair chance you´ll ever get to go straight. Ever think about the future?"
"Yeah, I do", I said sullenly, busy scrubbing half a ton of potatoes that would be quartered and fried to go with the fish.
"And?"
I shrugged.
"I don´t know. Something will come up, I guess. I´ve always managed allright."
"Like _f_u_c_k_ you have!" Wesley said sharply. "You think you´d be at Crowmill if you had? Start using your brains for a change. Acting out like you did last night may be allright to you, but it´s _f_u_c_k_ing embarrassing to other people."
"Yeah, right", I said, steaming inside. "And I suppose guys raping a guy is allright to you, but that´s _f_u_c_k_ing embarrassing to me."
"Because you leave it at that, feeling sorry for yourself. Go ahead, use it as a reason to _f_u_c_k_ up the treatment or get stoned or kill people or whatever." Wesley slammed the fridge door. "Tell that to a psychologist and you´ll get a free pass to Disneyland. And you´ll still be a stupid punk with a _f_u_c_k_ed up attitude."
"I´m not a punk", I retorted. "I´m not _f_u_c_k_ing stupid either. You guys actually think anybody´ll become a better person from being raped? You guys think whipping me until I _f_u_c_k_ing bleed all over the place will improve me? Hey, tell me who´s stupid around here."
"You are", Wesley said. "You´re too _f_u_c_k_ing sensitive, girlie. Now, you can learn everything worth knowing about life from Jack and Crowmill and eventually grow up a man, or you can go on being a punk until you die. A sensitive _f_u_c_k_ing punk. The worst _f_u_c_k_ing kind around. Picture yourself in court when you´ve done someone in because he laughed at you or just got in your way. You don´t like being raped? Then stay the _f_u_c_k_ out of jail."
"Man, you´re an asshole", I said, anger crawling along my muscles.
"Takes one to know one. Now shut the _f_u_c_k_ up and get on with those potatoes. I really admire Jack´s patience with punks like you. I´d kick your tiny brains out if I had to mix with your lot frequently." He went to check on the perch and left me alone in the kitchen, still steaming. I shut the _f_u_c_k_ up for sure. I didn´t say one single _f_u_c_k_ing word until we left and I had to shake hands with the s. o.b´s and thank them.
Later, Dazzle told me he´d screwed up the first time at Wesley´s, too. He got mad as hell with the old _f_u_c_k_er and threw a frying pan at him, and mr Jackson beat him up until he flaked out. Said nothing about getting raped, though. Dazzle also told me Wesley was mr Davenport´s halfbrother and that he´d been a real underworld big shot once upon a time. He went blind from blowing up a safe and did major time, too. Dazzle knew nothing about Dan except that he´d lived in Canada for twelve years and had two kids still living there. For some time that weekend kept haunting me, then I decided to forget all about it, and I almost did.
I tried to talk to Dazzle about his breaking out, nosy like hell. He usually was a talkative guy but turned very silent and said he hoped I´d drop that _s_h_i_t_, because nothing was worth it, and when I asked again he just told me to ditch it. I didn´t want to go around asking too much. The screws might pick up the word and turn suspicious.
JD was back again. He was as serious as he´d been before, but there was something else about him, too, vibes that made me wary, and he´d cut himself again, fresh wounds over the old scars on his arms, I don´t know how he did it but it looked nasty. He thanked me for taking care of Robbie and said he´d leave it there, but if I wanted to get even with the _f_u_c_k_er he was in. We really shook that asshole up for a while. Never even came close to touching him, but just watching the panic in his eyes was pure ecstacy.
There was this gang of constructers doing a roof job on our building. Some of them were square guys from the outside and some were Step Four apprentices. The outside guys arrived every morning in a Chevy van, parking it beside the building, changing into working gear in the back of it. The bloke that owned the van never missed taking the keys with him but he never locked the side door, either, because the other guys, even the Crowmill chaps, went in there on and off to have instant coffee or a smoke or _f_u_c_k_ing make out or whatever. They had their meals in the dining hall and always went there in the afternoon for a coffee break, too, probably had a special deal with the kitchen staff, getting something nice and sweet to go with it. Constructers work like crazy when they´re at it, but if they´ve decided to have a break they´re as determined to do a good job on that, too. The afternoon coffee adventure always began at 3.30 and lasted 30 minutes plus, the top score this far being 47 minutes – we met them on our way to PT and if we were playing football, which we did a lot because most of the screws liked it, I had a clear view from the field where we played - and most times, they didn´t do _s_h_i_t_ afterwards but admiring the roof, apparently discussing their fine craftsmanship until it was time to go home. At that pace they´d be staying until they retired with old age. Anyway, one of the guys was about my size. 57" isn´t exactly short, but a lot of guys are sturdier than me, especially the really hard working ones like this lot.
Tuesday, January 21st I got the fake runs while playing football, and as I´d expected mr Ackroyd allowed me to go to the loo in the gym hall on my own, because we were eight minutes from full time and it still was a draw. Neither mr Jackson nor mr Donovan were on duty that afternoon. I got into the van, found the clothes, changed, hid my hair under a cap and calmly walked to the dining hall, going round it to the main building, where I got hold of the janitor´s bicycle. Not a single soul was in sight anywhere. I equally calmly biked out of Crowmill and along the road until it turned. There I dumped the bike by the roadside and headed for the woods, and I was free at last.